


Too Late to Rise Above It

by TimmyJaybird



Series: 100 Themes Challenge [39]
Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Shameless Smut, everyone should have champagne in the bedroom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 17:31:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15999980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimmyJaybird/pseuds/TimmyJaybird
Summary: Some nights, Bruce allows himself into a world completely separate from his own- where he is allowed to be touched by the one man the light can never see him with.





	Too Late to Rise Above It

**Author's Note:**

> Been a long time since I dabbled in BatJokes.
> 
> The theme was "separation".

Bruce tensed, as overly chilled fingertips traced along the muscles of his back. They skittered over old and new scars, pausing to push at the fresh stitching Alfred had worked so hard on only the night before. He hissed, burning welling up from the wound and infecting the nearby skin. There was a giggle, and Bruce felt the ends of perfectly manicured nails dragging on the tender skin, before moving lower. Down his spine, until they slipped between his ass cheeks, shamelessly teasing around his asshole.

 

Bruce swallowed thickly. He was staring at sheets, unable to lift his head. His fists held the smooth sheets. Completely naked, on his hands and knees, Bruce was so open, bared and  _ on display _ , and he wasn’t even sure he knew how to breathe anymore.

 

“ _ Bats-y _ ,” the voice cooed, fingers still tracing around his entrance, “why so  _ tense _ ?”

 

Bruce knew the painted smile he was being given. Overly red diva lips, plump and twisted up, overly sharp teeth, dimples within his scars-

 

“Don’tcha wanna have some  _ fuunn _ ?”

 

The fingers withdrew, and Bruce heard the sound of glass clinking against his bedside table. Before he could question what his lunatic was even doing, he felt a cold shower of liquid falling on his back. Bruce gasped, head jerking up, as the liquid riveted off his sides, onto the sheets. He managed a glance behind him as the onslaught stopped, and the Joker was smiling coyly, holding the bottle of champagne Bruce had opened before stripping.

 

“Always, ah, wanted to do that,” he admitted, before he was leaning close. His tongue moved along Bruce’s spine, lapping at the alcohol. He hummed his pleasure, and Bruce tried to ignore that his tongue was so  _ hot _ , that it made his cock give a heavy twitch between his thighs. The tongue reached his latest wound, probed at it, and Bruce grunted.

 

But he didn’t tell him to stop.

 

The Joker sealed his mouth over the wound, sucked, was flooded with the tang of blood soiling the rich champagne. Bruce felt the skin and stitches giving slightly, heard the Joker  _ purr _ as it settled on his tongue. When he pulled back, he’d left lipstick smudges on Bruce’s abused skin.

 

“On your back for me Brucie,” he said, and Bruce complied all to quickly. He flopped back, supported by his pillows, laying in the champagne damp sheets. The Joker smirked, upending the bottle again, pouring the last of its contents over his chest and abdomen. Bruce shivered, couldn’t fight off the goosebumps that began to rise on his skin. The Joker tossed the bottle to the side, and Bruce heard it roll off the bed,  _ thump _ onto the floor.

 

His clown fiend leaned over him, pressed a kiss to Bruce’s pulse. Instinctively, Bruce tipped his head back, let the man smear his lipstick down his neck, onto his collar bone. He lapped at the droplets of champagne, one hand moving up to knead at Bruce’s pec, chilled palm pressing firm to one nipple. His mouth wrapped around the other, and the contrast of searing chill and burning heat had Bruce panting. He could feel each chuckle the Joker gave him, before those too sharp teeth were dragging along the sensitive bud. Bruce groaned, his hips bucking, the champagne that had pooled around his abdomen sloshing and sliding down his body again.

 

The Joker moved only when his nipple was pink and puffy. His kisses moved to laps down his abdomen, along the sculpted muscle, until he reached the thatch of dark hair at Bruce’s groin. He glanced up, acidic green eyes that seemed to glow against the kohl smudged around them, and Bruce shuddered a hastey breath.

 

Giving him no words, Bruce had to watch as the Joker skirted away from where Bruce so badly wanted to be touched, moving instead to one of his well muscled thighs. He pushed them apart, dug his blunt nails into the skin and he licked, nipped, and sucked. Bruce tossed his head, giving only little grunts and groans over the pain, knowing bruises would pepper his flesh come morning. Little marks to remind him of his night’s sin.

 

But when the Joker’s teeth clamped down, his jaw fully open in a true bite, Bruce gave a startled sound. He fidgeted, wincing at the pain, and when the Joker lifted his head, the red on his teeth wasn’t from his lipstick.

 

“Use that pretty voice of yours,” he purred, “tell me where ya want me to go.”

 

Bruce sucked at his tongue, eyes darting from the Joker’s mouth to his eyes and back again. He wriggled his hips, color rising to his cheeks as he mumbled, “my cock,” under his breath. The Joker chuckled, reaching out with one hand and dragging a single finger along the underside of Bruce’s dick.

 

“See, sometimes all a girl needs is, ah, a little  _ direction _ .” He wrapped his hand around it tightly- nearly too tightly- and Bruce dropped his head back, growling in a rattling voice as he was stroked. The Joker was watching Bruce’s ever expression, enthralled as his fist slid over the hot skin, precum sliding down to mingle with the remnants of champagne, keeping Bruce’s skin slick instead of slippery.

 

With his other hand, the Joker grasped at one of Bruce’s thighs, his thumb pushing into one of the larger bruises forming. Bruce hissed, and another giggle followed.

 

“Can’t let you  _ forget _ who gotcha, Batsy.” The hand left his thigh, moved to the Joker’s own groin. He cupped himself, rolling his hips into his hand, before he was working at his fly quickly. Bruce kept his head lifted now, watching with rapt attention as the Joker pulled his own cock free. He held it in his other hand, and squeezed with the same pressure he was using on Bruce’s.

 

He stroked to the same tempo.

 

And Bruce swore his hips bucked whenever Bruce’s own did.

 

“You and I,” the Joker managed, panting slightly now. His cock and cheeks were flushed the same red. “We’re the  _ same _ , Brucie boy.” He squeezed them both at the same time, and Bruce shuddered. “We’ve got the same pension for the  _ deranged _ .”

 

He chuckled, and Bruce dragged his nails along his damp sheets. In that moment he wanted to reach out, to grasp at the Joker’s arms. To squeeze and bruise so in the morning, he had something to prove it had even happened too.

 

And more than anything, he wanted to crash his mouth to those painted lips. Wanted to taste lipstick and the reents of champagne and his own blood. Wanted the Joker’s teeth to split his lip. Wanted his very soul sucked from his body, to be devoured by this demon-god he had welcomed so willingly into his bed.

 

But all he got was that hand. And the Joker’s panted breaths, his own belly coiling grunts, as they both climbed higher. The orgasms came moments apart- Bruce first, with a loud groan and his hips jerking up, cum splattering his abs, the Joker’s fingers. And the Joker’s moments later, with a contented sigh, pearly drops coating Bruce’s groin, sinking into his dark pubic curls.

 

Bruce collapsed down onto the bed. Panting, he stared up at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the Joker’s clothes rustling, feeling the bed dipping as the man stood from it.

 

Neither said a word, as Bruce listened to his footsteps crossing the room. It was only when he heard the window  _ creak _ open, felt a chill from outside invading his warm room, that he pushed himself up on his elbows, looked over. The Joker glanced back at him, and offered a smile that was almost sad.

 

“All the playtime I have tonight,” he said, his hands gloved now, god he dressed so  _ fast _ \- gripping at the window frame. “I’ll see ya in the shadows rich boy.” He winked, and then was gone, launching himself out the window as if he  _ wanted _ to simply splatter his very existence below.

 

Bruce knew he wouldn’t, knew he was nimble in ways no one should be. Knew he’d see him again, the next time he donned his mask.

 

He stayed there, in his soiled bed for a moment, before he carefully sat up properly. He pushed himself off the bed, grimacing because his thighs ached and the cut on his back burned. But he moved methodically, ignoring the pain otherwise.

 

He stripped the bed. The pillows and blanket had been untouched, but the sheets was removed and stuffed into a plastic garbage bag he’d had stashed beneath the bed. The empty champagne bottle followed. Once that was done, Bruce set the bag aside and moved to his private bathroom.

 

He showered under a shower so hot it scaled his skin, burned him red. He scrubbed himself raw, even his scalp which the Joker’s fingertips had touched, when he’d first arrived. When Bruce had expected the man to kiss him ravenously.

 

There had been no kiss, only nails on scalp and then his hair being tugged.

 

Once he was beyond clean, Bruce stepped out and toweled off. The process was slow, and the towel came back with a bit of blood from his back, and from his thigh. The bite mark had crusted over, but Bruce’s scrubbing and reopened it completely. He ignored it, rubbed his skin too roughly until it was dry. He stepped into his boxer briefs, pulled on a tshirt, and left his towel on the counter by the sink.

 

He moved mindlessly, remaking his bed. A fresh sheet, the pillows and blanket replaced as if he intended to leave the room entirely. Instead, Bruce moved to flick the light off, then pulled his blanket back, as if it were the first time he was stepping to the bed since that morning.

 

In the dark, he listened to the chilled wind, creeping in from the window he had never shut. The only proof he would allow that the Joker had even been there. His body had been scrubbed, his sheet replaced-

 

And come morning, when Alfred commented on the tenderness of his wound on his back, he would grunt wordlessly. And if Alfred wondered about the soiled sheet and open window, he wouldn’t voice his questions. He never did.

 

Everyone’s silence about the obvious visitor allowed Bruce to believe he could live separate lives, seperate moments that never had to touch. He could have these sordid moments with the man he was sworn to disdain, he could allow the man to soil him like he was a cheap toy, and it wouldn’t matter the moment he left.

 

The Bruce he was in those moments only lived  _ within them _ , he died the moment the Joker left. He didn’t look his children in the eye, didn’t sit in an office that felt it hovered in the sky- didn’t wear a suit and protect this decrepit city by night.

 

The Bruce that the Joker touched and pleased existed in only the sliver in time, where Bruce could admit that the only one to make him feel so good, so dirty and desirable, was the man he was sworn to hate with his very existence.

 

But the realities never touched.

 

_ Never _ .


End file.
